


Chivalry

by Kizzywiggle



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cassandra is badass, F/M, I Don't Even Know, Porn With Plot, Romantic Fluff, Short One Shot, Sickeningly shmoopy, Templars are dumb, Varric is chivalrous, drunk people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 13:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12169410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kizzywiggle/pseuds/Kizzywiggle
Summary: I had this idea about Varric defending his lady's honour without her knowing. I like the idea of Romantic Varric (like a Fabian romance cover, only earthier), and him being all chivalrous.So I wrote the first half and then _nothing_. For _months_.Until my brain suggested that Cassandra is as chivalrous and idealistic and romantic as Varric, amirite? And I replied, why yes, I reckon so.And the second half happened.I am utterly unrepentant, this is blatant wish-fulfillment :)





	Chivalry

**Author's Note:**

> DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE DIABETIC, IT'S JUST *THAT* SWEET.

“So, is it true what they say about the Seeker, Master Dwarf?”

The voice was brash: laced with the cockiness found at the bottom of too many pints of Cabot’s ale and more than loud enough to carry across conversations, tankards clanking and Maryden’s latest _Ode to Sera_ , dragging silence in its wake. There was a pregnant pause as it seemed that everyone in the Herald’s Rest took a deep breath awaiting either Varric’s answer or immediate, bloody violence, and the Inquisitor made a tiny movement which saw the Inner Circle quietly readying weapons and spells...just in case. Varric smiled widely, making a ‘calm down’ patting gesture with his hand, and leaned back, waving with his battered tankard at the snotty young Templar who’d posed the question.

“Is what true, friend?” the dwarf asked in his gravelly voice. “Every good writer knows that you have to ask...specific questions. If you want specific answers, anyway.” He took a long drink, perfectly calm, and the anticipation in the room was a living thing with weight and form and just a hint of a temper...

The Templar couldn’t have been more than about nineteen, twenty summers; barely older than Cole appeared, and with probably as little tact; drunk not only on Cabot’s ale but the somewhat protected position of the Order as allies of the Inquisition, but as his ‘friends’ edged slowly away from him he flushed, then swallowed, squaring his shoulders. “I asked if it’s true what they say about the Seeker,” he stated again. Despite the utter idiocy of his question, Varric kind of admired his balls: having made a bloody reckless decision he stuck with it.

“Well,” drawled Sparkler from where he lounged, half-draped across The Bull, “I’d ask in return, young man: who are ‘they’, and what, exactly, do they say?” He flashed a grin at Varric, flirting from under his eyelashes. Really, he couldn’t help it. “Because, for instance, I heard that 'they’ said I spend far too much time with this oaf here,” he dragged an elegant finger down the Qunari's battered profile, “And I've forgotten the terribly serious matter of the war!! Which of _course_ I haven't,seeing as I haven't been able to visit my tailor in _months_!”" Bull chuckled indulgently and wrapped an arm about his ‘Vint lover, leaning down to growl something in Dorian’s ear which actually made him blush.

“Well...everyone” the kid blustered. “They say that despite her high-and-mighty airs and piousness, she’s a dirty fuck who’ll go for hours…” Someone unseen gasped; there was a choked, shocked giggle from elsewhere. Suddenly the silence grew teeth and sharp edges and _growled_. People were leaning down over the balcony to get a better view as Varric climbed to his feet, then on to the table, where he turned in a slow circle, arms wide, before settling into his wide-legged storyteller’s stance.

“Kid, I’m going to answer your question. Kind of. But I expect you to listen, and to tell…’everyone’...” the sarcasm was a tangible thing in his tone as he paused for effect, “Tell each and every one of them my reply. Verbatim. Deal?”

The kid nodded, his face paling as sobriety and a too-late sense of self-preservation returned.

“Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast is, kid, a _Lady_. I hope you heard the capital letter: it was deliberate. She is a passionate and committed Seeker, utterly devoted to the ideals of her order and true to the promises she’s made over her lifetime.”

As Varric spoke, his voice taking on the rolling, relaxed cadences of a master storyteller, the atmosphere in the tavern relaxed somewhat.He allowed himself a small smirk as he worked his own particular brand of magic, feeling satisfaction tingle through him.

“Not only is Seeker Cassandra devoted, she is _hard_. Kid, she trains in ways which would make you piss your hose. She takes _him_ on (Varric nodded at Bull) _and wins_ ”

“Once!” Bull interjected with a laugh, “One time!”

The Templar kid looked at Bull with wide eyes, then back at Varric, who nodded.

“Yep. Just once, but still, right? In addition to that, I’ve yet to see a single-handed weapon she couldn’t master, a method of combat she won’t try. She endeavours constantly to improve as a warrior, and puts in the time to make it happen.

“Lady Cassandra also spends time helping to run this Inquisition, going wherever the Inquisitor sends her without complaint. She has personally sought out and taken down renegade Seekers and Unbound mages the length and breadth of Thedas. She may be a little prickly, true, but she is strong, moral, loyal, committed, kind and fierce in the defence of those she sees as in need of her protection.” Varric took a deep breath and hopped down from the scarred wood of the table top, crossing the tavern to stand nose-to-nose with the seated Templar, who looked like he probably _had_ pissed his hose. Sera said, “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” but was shushed by the Inquisitor, and Varric spoke in a near-whisper which was nonetheless clearly audible for a good distance in any direction.

“And, for your information, _Lady_ Cassandra is a deeply private and guarded person; the fact she chooses to spend time with me, that she trusts me enough to show me her private self, that she has finally, _finally_ allowed that knowledge to become public means that I will defend her honour not just against each and every person in this room, but in the whole of Thedas. I will guard her privacy jealously and shelter her sensibilities against people like you who seek to drag her good name into the dirt. Finally?” Varric gave a slow, evil smile, and the kid shivered in response. “Most importantly...I won’t tell her what you just asked. Sound good to you?”

The templar nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Varric laughed and patted him on the cheek, turning to walk back to his table with a cocky swagger. The Inquisitor stood and bowed to him, her horns catching the light of the lamps. “Nicely done, Varric.”

“Thanks, Boss,” he replied. “Damn me, can you imagine if she’d heard that? We’d be mopping up guts even now!” They sat back down, reaching for their drinks, and Krem leaned around Bull to grin at Varric. As they drank, the horrible silence shrank, slinking back into the darkened corners of the tavern and allowing the comfortable hubbub to grow in its place.

Not long after, Varric made his farewells and left the bright, hot tavern, stepping into a night cool and clear, the air so pure at that elevation that it was a natural high. He breathed deep then sighed out, closing his eyes and raising his face to the night sky. When she spoke from the darkness, he wasn't surprised, and when her calloused hand curved around his heavy jaw, he just smiled, eyes still closed. “Seeker.”

“Oh, my Varric…” her voice was husky, a delicious scrape along his spine, the Navarran accent unmusical but full of meaning as she whispered to him. “Oh,my foolish, chivalrous, wonderful love.” Her lips pressed to his, their softness still, even now, a delicious, surprising contrast to the rest of her. He breathed her scent of leather, metal, horses and sweat, tasting that same sweat salty on her lip, and brought his hands up to mirror hers.

“Seeker,” he acknowledged, opening his eyes at last. He was fiercely glad that this Cassandra was his, and his alone by her choice; where the cloth-headed idiots only saw the mannish, surly Seeker, Varric was privileged to see the woman. He’d heard her attempts - dire, but heartfelt - at writing love poems, felt her ribs shake uncontrollably when he tickled her, held her when she cried at yet more bloody senseless deaths on the path to defeating Corypheus. To him, Cassandra was a multitude in one body, fantasy and reality and somehow, now, all his dreams for a better future. “By the Maker, I love you, woman,” he whispered, unashamed when his voice cracked with emotion. 

“You know that I don't care what they say about me, as long as they fight?” she questioned. “I know what they say, Varric, and it truly doesn't bother me.”

“It bothers me!” Varric protested. “They don't know you, don't know how hard you work, how-” she cut him off with a finger over his lips and a shush. 

“It _doesn't_ bother me because…” she trailed off with a surprisingly impish grin.

“Stop teasing me!” he laughed. “I'm prepared to tickle it out of you!” 

Cassandra moved so her mouth was right by his ear, and when she spoke her breath breezed across his skin, raising goosebumps and making him gasp. “It doesn't bother me, my sweet, deluded champion, because,” her voice lowered to be all-but inaudible, “I _am_ a dirty fuck who’ll go for hours…” She straightened, turned, and walked away. The worn leathers she wore cupped her backside like the hands of a lover; she didn't need to sway or strut to draw Varric's attention. After half a dozen paces, she looked back over her shoulder. “Are you coming, then?”

“Why?” he asked dumbly. His brains were mildly scrambled, and his usual suaveness had deserted him completely.

“Because I intend to prove him right...all night, if need be.”

She disappeared around the side of the foundry, leaving Varric blinking stupidly in her wake. After a moment his brain caught up with his libido, and he shivered, hard. With a muttered, “Andraste’s tits, yes!” he hurried after her.

When Varric finally emerged the following morning, Cassandra was already hard at work in the sword ring. As he staggered past on the way to the kitchen, she looked up and their eyes met. She gave him a small, private smile which he returned - it took less than a heartbeat - and then she _whirled_ , bringing her sword up and over and round to crash down on the shield of her Templar sparring partner. He cried out and crumpled to the ground. Varric paused. Cassandra held out a hand and helped the Template up. He rose with much swearing and pulled off his helm to rub at his neck, looking at the Seeker from under lowered, considering brows. She smiled in a way that somehow reminded Varric of a wolf with its tail wagging...appealing, friendly, but still enough to stimulate a tickle of concern. “So,” she said, her voice carrying like a hunting horn over the courtyard. “My apology, Ser Templar?”

He almost crumpled to a knee,hiding his sword forward and bowing his head in penitence. “Lady Cassandra, I apologise unreservedly for any offence or harm I caused you or Master Varric with my rash and tasteless words. Furthermore, I promise to abstain from anything stronger than small beer in future, that I may better represent my Order with clear thinking and moderate behaviour.” The knight was almost weeping at this point, but looked up when Cassandra placed her gauntleted palm on his head.

“You are forgiven,” she stated quietly, then gave him one of her rare sunny smiles. As the kid blinked, the Seeker rose and walked a slow circle about the training ring, pinning every gaze with hers as she moved. “I hear what you say about me,” she stated. “And I _choose_ to ignore it, because it is below my dignity to respond to such infantile provocation. However…” Cassandra's voice rose, sharpened, roughened, “I will not under _any_ circumstances tolerate you questioning Master Varric about our private life. Ever.” She stood, planted the tip of her mace on the ground, and folded her hands about the handle. “This is my final word on the subject. Anyone at all heard to be discussing my activities will be summarily challenged and dealt with as they deserve. Are. You. Clear?” 

There were nods and apologies and a few mutters from around the ring, but she nodded once, satisfied. “Excellent. Dismissed.” She handed her mace to a squire and left the ring, approaching Varric with a seemingly-blank face, although he could see the hesitation in her eyes.

“My dear lady, that was something else!” he declared. Ostentatiously he swept into a formal court bow, adding silly little flourishes and arabesques, looking up once he was almost bent double. “To have you defend my honour so...hmmmm...vigorously was quite inspiring!” At her muffled snort, Varric stood, took her hand, and pressed a kiss to her gauntlet. “I can feel a sonnet, or maybe an epic poem brewing: _To My Gallant Lady_ , or _She Doth Smite the Idiots_ or somesuch.” He fluttered his eyelashes and flirted outrageously. Cassandra made an indecipherable noise, eyes now dancing with amusement. “And,” he added, “While you're in a good mood, I come bearing news…” He tailed off, eyes downcast.

“What is it, Varric?”

“We are off to Emprise du Lyon in the morning,” he began, and she swore. “But it's not all bad!” he hurried to reassure her.

“How is it _ever_ 'not bad’, going to that benighted place? It's more dragons than landscape, and full of fanatics!” she snapped, glaring at him. Varric made a beckoning gesture, and when Cassandra stopped to his level, he whispered in her ear:

“I made sure we'll be sharing a tent.” She stood slightly to look at him directly, questioning. “A very _small_ tent,” Varric clarified. “Just you, me, and the night…”

“And demons and red lyrium-cursed idiots and dragons,” Cassandra muttered, smiling.

“Hey, nowhere’s perfect,” he answered. “But anywhere you are comes damned close.”


End file.
